


Needs

by platypus (kite)



Series: kinkmeme fic and commentfic [4]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Frottage, Pegging, Smut, Spanking, kinkmeme fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kite/pseuds/platypus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's been a week, or two, or three, but when she's stressed out of her mind or her family gets to be too much, she texts him: <i>Tonight?</i>  </p><p>And all he ever answers is <i>yes</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Doctor Who kinkmeme, sizeofthatthing.livejournal.com, in 2010.
> 
> Prompt: Martha/Nine - spanking and pegging (ie she does him with a strap-on).

She doesn't know what a guy like him is doing in a place like this. He might wonder the same about her, but they don't talk much. He doesn't know she's a medical student, and she doesn't know he's...whatever he is. Neither of them is the sort of person she would have expected at a sex club, but here they both are, time after time. It's the closest thing to a relationship she's had in years, and she doesn't even know the man's name.

Martha's been coming to the club for a few months now. She was so nervous the first time, wondering if she needed some password or secret handshake, worrying that people would read signals from how she did her hair or where she kept her keys. But she paid the admission and they let her in, and the biggest surprise was how _normal_ everyone seemed. She could imagine the people around the bar as bankers or librarians by day. Or medical students. 

Except, maybe, for one.

The man in the battered leather jacket didn't seem interested in impressing anyone. He sat alone, observing the room with thoughtful curiosity, as separate from all of it as some kind of scientist studying the mating habits of field voles. When she sat down next to him, he raised an eyebrow but didn't demur. He didn't offer her a name; she introduced herself as Maria and earned a short laugh. 

And then he dispensed with the small talk and told her, simply and directly, exactly what he wanted. Martha had her excuses ready—she'd only come to look, she wasn't into kinky stuff—but something about him made her feel reckless. Adventurous. _In for a penny_ , she thought, and told him she'd give it a try. 

Three months have passed since that night, and she keeps coming back. Sometimes it's been a week, or two, or three, but when she's stressed out of her mind or her family gets to be too much, she texts him: _Tonight?_

And all he ever answers is _yes_.

* * *

There's a private room available tonight, and she's glad. Neither of them likes doing this where they can be watched, though they have. Meeting outside of the club would be a step too far, so they take what they can get.

Once the door is locked behind them, her companion sets down the box he's been carrying and tosses his leather jacket across a chair. He always brings his own toys; while he undresses, Martha slips the lid off the box to see what her options are this time. Her repertoire has gradually grown, but there are plenty of things they still haven't done. He's never even fucked her with that gorgeous cock, even now jutting from his opened jeans. She carries a condom, just in case, but given what's in the box she doubts this will be the night.

She watches, considering, as he finishes undressing and folds his jumper neatly on the chair. Naked, there's no shyness in him; he stands before her without a hint of self-consciousness, waiting for her instructions. 

"Bend over," she says, with all the authority she's learned to muster. He obeys immediately, turning away and bending to grasp the wrought-iron footboard of the bed. The powerful muscles of his back and thighs are thrilling; it's like having some sort of jungle cat, raw-boned and dangerous, putting himself in her hands.

She's found she likes it, being in control of something, if that's what it's called when she's so clearly giving him what he wants. Needs. Maybe this is just Martha Jones taking care of someone again, but whatever's going on here, she wants it too.

When he's ready, she goes back to the box and picks up a broad leather paddle, smacking it across her hand a few times—he likes the anticipation, she knows. Her boots are quiet on the carpet as she paces behind him, considering angles, timing. His eyes stay fixed ahead, but the room's stifling with the tension radiating from his body. She touches him casually at first, caressing his arse with the leather of the paddle, waiting until he rises to meet it before drawing back to strike the first blow. It's loud enough to startle, but he doesn't wince. She waits a breath and then moves back in for two strokes, five, ten, increasing the force as she goes. He makes no sound, but she can see his knuckles whiten as he grips the footboard harder.

"Enough?" She makes it cool, cynical, for all that it's genuinely a question. She strokes him with the paddle again, soothing his flushed skin. He doesn't answer her, just lowers his head and waits for more. 

She doesn't ask again. The next time the paddle hits, his hips give a little twitching thrust. "Be still," she says, with another swat for emphasis. When he settles down she continues, spanking him firmly and thoroughly, on and on until the redness of his skin deepens and small noises begin to follow the smack of the paddle. 

He won't ask her to stop. He's never once said the safeword in all the times they've done this. Sometimes they go on until her arm gets tired, and he dresses stiffly afterward, avoiding her eyes as he leaves her there alone. She doesn't want this to be one of those nights, but he's moaning, writhing despite her order to be still, and she can see how badly he _wants_ this, can't help but respond to that hunger. 

But it's time to change tactics. She builds up to a crescendo of sharp, stinging blows, then abruptly stops; his body shudders in a way it never did when she was still spanking him. They're both breathing heavily, and Martha shakes out her stiff wrist, letting the paddle fall to the floor with a quiet thump. 

He doesn't turn. He knows what's coming next, and he stays in position while she takes off her trousers and puts on the harness. The dildo that fits into the harness is smooth and featureless, thick and firm with a slight upward curve. It's made of a pearly lavender silicone that makes Martha feel a little silly, but it's not as though he ever looks. The quickening rush of his breathing is the only sign that he knows what she's doing at all. She zips her boots back up—without the extra inch of height, they'd never make this work—and he makes a tiny eager noise. She shushes him, stills him, slides her hand around to seek out the thick shaft of his cock; he's been hard all this time, she marvels. She wishes the room had a mirror. He quivers, thrusting into her tight fist once, twice before she lets go. Her palm is wet.

Leaving him for a moment, she rummages in the box for the little bottle of lube, using it to slick the toy up thoroughly. When she's ready, she taps the inside of his ankle with her foot and he widens his stance a bit. The wet tip of the dildo must be cold, but he doesn't flinch, holding perfectly still as she rises to her toes and slides it in. 

She's the one who groans when she pushes all the way to the base, finally getting some welcome pressure on her clit. Without pause she begins to fuck him, deep and steady, and it feels fantastic but it's maddening because it's not quite enough to get her off, it never is. Each thrust jolts straight to her clit until she's slick and heavy with arousal, but she needs more—harder pressure, better leverage, _something_. She drives relentlessly into him in search of it, until he's grunting with each stroke, but she knows he can take it. He's only ever asked for more, harder, deeper, and she's chasing her own release now, panting, digging her fingers into his thighs. One of his hands leaves the bed to pump his cock, his arm moving in the same rhythm as her hips. She grinds into him for an extra second or two each time she goes deep and it's almost enough, _almost_.

His low groan comes too soon. Usually she loves to watch him come—the power of it, the knowledge that she brought him there—but when his rhythm falters, her own incipient orgasm sputters out. She pushes desperately against him, trying to recapture it, but it's no use; all she can do is wait in frustration while he finishes, feeling the jostle of his furiously working hand. When he sags over the bed, catching his breath, the ache in Martha's overworked thighs is suddenly overwhelming. If she's a little more abrupt than usual when she slips the dildo out, he doesn't seem to notice. 

She's still fumbling with the harness when he recovers, turning those sharp blue eyes on her for the first time since they began. He brushes her hands away from the stiff buckles and works them free himself, sliding the harness off her hips with the ease of practice. Another tug and her knickers follow. Martha feels her own excitement build again, her heart beating fast, wondering what it'll be tonight. Sometimes he falls to his knees, burying his face between her legs. Sometimes he makes her climax over and over with a slim little vibrator that seems to have thousands of settings. Sometimes he teases her nipples with his hands and tongue and teeth until she practically gets off from that alone. Tonight, though, she really just wants him to finish what she started. Now. 

With a knowing little smile he sits on the bed and draws her to him, pushing one hard thigh between her legs. She's so wet she's sure he can feel it; his hands splay over her arse, squeezing, as he lifts his thigh and presses her firmly down. He rocks his leg and she grinds against it, slow and hard, until suddenly she's right back on the brink. He pulls her to meet him again, and again, and when her orgasm comes he holds her tight, muffling her noises against his bare shoulder. 

Afterward he lies back, taking her with him, and she doesn't bother to disentangle herself right away. One big hand moves gently up and down her back, and they stay like that a while, strangely tender; Martha even dozes a little, relaxed in a way she hasn't felt in ages. 

It doesn't last. It can't. Soon enough they get up and find their clothes, nod their farewells. Martha leaves first, closing the door silently behind her, braced for the real world again. 

Until next time, of course.


End file.
